


Under There? Underwear!

by froggy (therealfroggy)



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Crossdressing, F/M, M/M, Underwear Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-26
Updated: 2012-12-26
Packaged: 2017-11-22 12:29:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/609837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therealfroggy/pseuds/froggy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three responses to Pam's "Under there? Underwear!" challenge! The challenge was to write fics centred around underwear and one character.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under There? Underwear!

_Black Ain't the Colour: Jane/Lincoln_

“'Morning.”

“Good morning, Jane. You look nice today.”

“... I look what?”

“Nice; you look nice. Um... like a compliment?”

“What are you up to?”

Jane glared suspiciously at him. Lincoln began to fidget with his coffee cup, but quickly stopped himself.

“I'm not... Can't I say you look pretty without you getting mad at me?”

“From ´nice` to ´pretty`,” Jane mused, still looking suspiciously at him. “What is it?”

Lincoln blushed ever so slightly. “Maybe I'm just being nice.”

“No way,” Jane laughed. “Only reason for a man to compliment the woman who's got him in protective custody is because he wants to get out or get laid.”

“Protective custody? I'm waiting for my father to get here!” Lincoln said, indignant.

“Getting laid, then,” Jane said, pouring herself a cup of coffee. “Question is, why now? We've been here for two full days; you've had your chance.”

Lincoln muttered something incomprehensible into his coffee.

Jane smirked. “You've been in my room, haven't you?”

Lincoln's blush deepened. “No!”

“Tell me, which one did you see?” Jane laughed. “The balconette or the Wonderbra?”

Lincoln gave her a lopsided grin that made something flutter in her abdomen. “The black one. You know, women and black underwear...”

Jane smiled sweetly at him. “You've been watching too many movies, Burrows. It's not the colour; you've got to look at the design. Trust me; the black sports bra is _not_ my sex underwear.”

Lincoln frowned. “No?”

Jane gave him her best bedroom eyes. “Mm. Now, if you'd looked in my top drawer...” A guilty look told her he'd done exactly that. “... you'd have found a crimson two-piece set in lace. _That_... is my sex underwear.”

She could hear him audibly swallow.

“I didn't... I was only looking for an Aspirin,” he muttered, draining the rest of his coffee in an attempt to drown the image of Jane's pink lips and defined curves wrapped in crimson lace.

Jane laughed then; a throaty, voluptuous laugh that made Lincoln turn to the sink in order to avoid her noticing his stirring hard-on.

Deciding to take pity on him, Jane moved up to him and pressed against his back.

“Come on, then. Let's see if you're better at unfastening bras than at interpreting them.”

She had, after all, brought the crimson set for a reason.

 

_Adventures of a Party Girl's Panties: T-Bag_

“I take it you _are_ a party girl.”

He hissed it into the guy's ear in an attempt to sound seducing in a threatening way.

The transvestite was, indeed, a party girl. Bottoming without a single complaint, he let T-Bag do pretty much anything he wanted without a word.

Not that T-Bag wanted to do much at all with him. He may have earned the nickname Sergeant Sodomy, but he was an aesthete – he liked them pretty.

_One for the team, do it for the team, it's your ticket to ride with the Pretty..._

After fifteen minutes of repeating that line to himself while dispassionately getting off in the unappealing body beneath him, T-Bag hastily slipped out of the cell with the scrap of fabric in his pocket. He was going to wash off before handing the damn thing over.

As he was drying off in his cell later, he found himself picking up the panties he'd taken from the party girl. They had pink lace edges; he thought the colour could be called pale peach. They were pretty.

Very pretty.

Checking to see that the sheet was still down and that no outlined shadows revealed anyone standing outside, he dropped the towel and hesitantly took the panties in both hands. Maybe just for a quick moment?

He slipped them on.

_Fuck, that looks weird._

His angular hips protruded oddly from the pink lining. The colours made his skin seem all that coarser, and what with the hair on his legs and his ´treasure trail`...

Panties did _not_ suit him.

Embarrassed that he had even tried them on, he quickly whipped them off and redressed, taking care to fit his masculine, white cotton boxers as comfortably as possible.

When he pressed the panties into Sucre's hand five minutes later, he hoped he wasn't blushing.

“If you _ever_... tell anyone about this...”

 

_Secret Agent Switcheroo: Paul Kellerman, T-Bag_

_If the other agents could see me now, they'd laugh their asses off!_

Paul was really, really miserable. He was stuck in some run-down motel, way out in the middle of nowhere, New Mexico. He was travelling incognito, and the only thing he'd brought was a backpack full of clothes. Of course, that there were two guns in there somewhere went without saying.

On the hunt for Scofield, Burrows and the other escapees. He didn't really care that much about the others, as long as he got the brothers.

Sighing, he threw the backpack on the dingy bed, not looking to see if it landed on it. He headed for the bathroom to wash his face and hands; commercial air travel made him feel dusty as well as bored.

When he returned, he noticed something strange about his luggage: money was spilling from it. Frowning, he hastily opened it and checked the contents.

Money. Lots of money; fat wads of bills. Hundreds, two hundreds... And Paul had a sneaking suspicion it was approximately five million dollars of old Cooper money. Who else but one of his prey would be carrying that around?

Shock at the sight of all that cash quickly gave way to a sense of opportunity. There was a good probability that either Scofield or Burrows was missing his backpack; they would need it and have to come for it. And when they did, he'd be ready. He'd catch the bastard, and then he'd stash the money somewhere and come back for it later.

Grinning, he called up the airline company.

“Good afternoon, my name is Owen Kravecki. I arrived in New Mexico with the 14.50 flight today, and I seem to have lost my backpack. I have someone else's here.”

_“Hold, please.”_

He waited.

_“Sir? We have another case of misplaced luggage on the same flight. It's a backpack. A doctor Stammel. Do you want me to call him?”_

“Please. Give him my address, will you?”

He gave his details, hung up, and sat back to wait. The gun his contact had left him in a locker in the train station outside the airport, was right next to him on the bed.

He kept smirking to himself until he realized the guy who had his backpack, now had two guns as well. Damn. Well, he had a gun too; the guy didn't really have an advantage.

The smirk suddenly turned into a shocked gape when he realized what more the guy would find in his luggage.

“Fuck!”

***

_Damn, I'm good!_

He'd escaped prison, he'd outsmarted the Pretty and the other cons, he'd avoided capture and he was about two days away from leaving the country. All of it with no greater loss than his hand.

Okay, so that was a bloody great loss. But he was still alive, still free, and he had five million to show for it. Yes, Theodore Bagwell had his reasons to smile.

Kicking back on the hotel bed, he reached over for the backpack. He'd left a chocolate bar in there somewhere...

_What. The hell. Is this?_ His hand felt frantically around the backpack. His fingers encountered only fabric, no paper. Tearing at the ties holding the bag closed, he ripped it open and emptied it onto the bed.

Clothes, two pieces of interesting hardware and some lingerie. He'd taken some woman's luggage! Worse, he'd taken some _violent_ woman's luggage; the two guns looked like Schwarzenegger himself would use them!

_Wait a second..._ The guns were the kind used by government people. The underwear was for women, only rather large. _That is one well-fed gal!_ A female agent, then, and not one he looked like standing any chance of overpowering.

“Fuck!”

He reached for the phone, asked to be put through to the airline company, and waited. He'd just ask them to sort it out; they could send him the right bag by messenger or something. If the woman was, indeed, government, then she should give him the right bag back. Morality and ethics and all that.

If not, he'd simply have to find her. She had, after all, included two guns in her wardrobe.

Curiosity got the better of him once he'd hung up with the airline company. Did agents really have that good taste in underwear? He picked up a garter belt and smiled appreciatively. There were high stockings, two bras (these, too, were large – though with disproportionately small cup sizes), and a variety of hipster underpants.

The girl in question certainly did have taste; the bras and hipsters were all in shades of dark greens and blues, and had fine details in lace, embroideries and fake gems. The fabric felt like silk.

Her taste in clothing, on the other hand, puzzled him. Plain shirts, trousers and a jacket; all very masculine and hardly fitting female curves. Even the socks were plain and man-ish.

_Odd tastes for a woman with such fine lingerie..._

Well. Not that he cared. Not unless he was able to charm her instead of kill her, or maybe both. It was just so much easier – and cleaner – to fool them than to shoot them. Not to mention the noise.

***

“Come in!”

Paul had the gun aimed at the door as soon as he heard the knock; it would be one of the brothers, he was sure. He breathed steady and waited.

The door burst open to reveal the barrel of a gun pointed directly at himself; the barrel of one of his own guns. At the other end of it stood Theodore ´T-Bag` Bagwell, grinning triumphantly.

“I thought I smelled a rat,” the murderer drawled, “when ya had me come here instead of sendin' the bag over to my hotel.”

“Bagwell,” Paul said, “so disappointed to see you. You fooled Scofield, I see? Got the money all to yourself?”

The Alabamian entered the room, gun aimed at Paul's head, and closed the door behind him. Paul noticed his other hand hanging rather limp at his side.

“I sure did,” Bagwell smirked. “But how did ya know 'bout the cash?”

“I'm government, Bagwell; I know as well as you do that there were five million out there and that Scofield had contact with Cooper on the inside. We just didn't know where, exactly, the money was.”

“Well, now ya do,” Bagwell smirked. There was something very unnerving about that smirk, even to an agent of Paul's training.

“And it's your bag I got here, is it?” the man continued, calmly aiming the gun a little lower – at Paul's heart.

“Probably, seeing as this one's yours,” Paul said, highly grateful for his ability to block out emotion from his voice and expression. He would have keeled over and died from embarrassment otherwise.

Bagwell laughed then. He laughed loudly and heartily, apparently enjoying himself immensely. At Paul's expense.

“Well, I never would-a dreamed it,” he chortled evilly. “A scary agent such as yourself, not even able to come out of the closet and admit he's gender confused?”

“You don't know what you're talking about,” Paul said calmly. “It's for my assignment. Part of the cover story. I'd tell you more, but unfortunately, it's a matter of national security.”

“It sure would be,” Bagwell taunted, “if I were to leak it to the press. You're talkin' bullshit, agent Kravecki, an' I'm callin' ya on it.”

Paul noticed how his name sounded like an insult when paired with that title, coming from Bagwell.

“Now, I ain't gonna sing, so don't ya worry. But I want that money back,” the Alabamian insisted, taking a step toward the bed.

“All I have to do is shoot you, and both those issues are taken care of,” Paul said, furious with himself for the flush he felt coming on. God, he hoped the man hadn't seen the garter belt!

“Nice try, Kravecki, but I got a gun pointin' at you too.”

“And if I'm simply quicker?”

“Ya won't be.”

The two men stared at each other for a while, Paul angrily and Bagwell with an air of amusement. Then, deciding to hell with it, Paul pulled the trigger.

_Click_. That feeble sound had never sounded so sickening to the agent in all his life.

Bagwell roared with laughter, advancing on Paul before he had the time to undo the safety hatch. He must have accidentally put it on, or fidgeted with it and then forgotten it! Bagwell pressed the gun to Paul's neck and hissed, “Drop it.”

Paul had no choice but to obey. Dropping his gun to the floor, he could only listen to it slide as Bagwell kicked it under the bed.

“Here ya go,” Bagwell grinned, dumping the backpack in Paul's lap. He hefted the other one – the one with the cash in it – onto his back, though it took some time. His other hand, Paul suddenly noticed, was a prosthetic.

“Now, I'm gonna leave ya here,” Bagwell said, “alive. But I don't want ya followin' me. So here's what we're gonna do...”

***

Paul cursed loudly, watching the ashes of his burnt clothing flutter about in the steel waste basket. Just outside, he could hear Bagwell's cackling as the man escaped yet again; escaped with five million dollars and two guns.

And Paul was left in a small motel room, dressed in stockings, garter belt, bra and lace panties. Bagwell had threatened him at gunpoint to don the attire, then likewise forced him to set fire to all his clothing.

He had only a hundred dollars or so, no weapon, no phone and no clothing. Only his secret, shameful indulgence was left to cheer him up; and at the moment, that didn't help much.

Fuck it. He should never have tried to mix work and hobby.


End file.
